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Энди МакНаб. Последний свет(engl)
Last Light [181-142-181-4.2]
By: Andy McNab.
Category: fiction spies
Synopsis:
When Secret Intelligence Service deniable operator Nick Stone aborts an
officially sanctioned assassination attempt at the Houses of Parliament,
having realized who the target is, he is given a chilling ultimatum by his
bosses: fly to Panama and finish the job, or Kelly, the eleven-year-old
orphan in his guardianship, will be killed.
At any other stage of his life the task would have been run of the mill
for a man of Stone's skills and experience. But Stone is on the edge,
struggling to pick up the pieces of his shattered life, trying to come to
terms with a heartrending decision he has had to make about Kelly's future.
By the time he arrives in Panama, he is close to breaking point.
In the sweltering jungle of Central America, Stone prepares to carry
out his orders, aided by Aaron and Carrie, two American eco-scientists in
the pay of the CIA. But as he soon discovers, nothing in Panama is quite
what it seems, and it's not long before he finds himself the centre of a
lethal conspiracy involving Colombian guerrillas, the US government and
Chinese big business.
At stake are hundreds of innocent lives .. .
Only Stone can stop the killing and retrieve the West's interests, but
first there is a critically injured friend to rescue, and miles of dense
rain forest to navigate. In the explosive denouement at the Panama Canal
with everyone's true colours ultimately revealed, Nick Stone is forced to
make the toughest decision of his life.
Last printing: 03/12/02 `<49' Also by Andy McNab
Non-fiction
BRAVO TWO ZERO
IMMEDIATE ACTION
Fiction
REMOTE CONTROL
CRISIS FOUR
FIREWALL
LAST LIGHT
ANDY McNAB
BANTAM PRESS
LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO SYDNEY AUCKLAND
TRANS WORLD PUBLISHERS
61-63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA a division of The Random House Group
Ltd
RANDOM HOUSE AUSTRALIA (PTY) LTD
20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, New South Wales 2061,
Australia
RANDOM HOUSE NEW ZEALAND LTD
18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand
RANDOM HOUSE SOUTH AFRICA (PTY) LTD
Endulini, 5a Jubilee Road, Parktown 2193, South Africa Published 2001
by Bantam Press a division of Transworld Publishers McNab 2001 The right of
Andy McNab to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in
accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act
1988.
All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 0-386-593 04617X (cased) All rights reserved. No part of this
publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Typeset in 11/13pt Palatine by Falcon Oast Graphic Art Ltd Printed in
Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham plc, Chatham, Kent
LAST LIGHT
Sunday, 3 September 2000 I didn't know who we were going to kill just
that he or she would be amongst the crowd munching canapes and sipping
champagne on the terrace of the Houses of Parliament at 3 p.m." and that the
Yes Man would identify the target by placing his hand on their left shoulder
when he greeted them.
I'd done some weird stuff over the years, but this job was scaring me.
In less than ninety minutes, I was going to be shitting on my own doorstep
big-time. I only hoped the Firm knew what it was doing, because I wasn't too
sure that I did.
As I looked down yet again at the clear plastic lunch-box on the desk
in front of me, three torch bulbs sticking out of holes I'd burnt in the lid
stared back up. None of them was illuminated;
the three snipers were still not in position.
Everything about this job was wrong. We'd been given the wrong weapons.
We were in the wrong place. And there just hadn't been enough time to plan
and prepare.
I stared through the net curtains across the boat-filled river. The
Houses of Parliament were some 350 metres away to my half left.
The office I'd broken into was on the top floor of County Hall, the
former Greater London Council building. Now redeveloped into offices, hotels
and tourist attractions, it overlooked the Thames from the south side. I was
feeling rather grand sitting behind a highly polished, dark wood desk, as I
looked out at the killing ground.
Parliament's terrace spanned the whole of its river frontage. Two
prefabricated pavilions with candy-striped roofs had been erected at the far
left end, for use throughout the summer months. Part of the terrace, I'd
learnt from their website, was for Members of the House of Lords, and part
for the House of Commons. The public were not admitted unless they were with
an MP or peer, so this was probably the nearest I was ever going to get.
The Department of Trade and Industry's guests today were a group of
about thirty businessmen, plus staff and some family, from Central and South
America. Maybe the DTI was trying to curry a bit of favour and sell them a
power station or two. Who cared? All I knew was that one of them would be
getting dropped somewhere between the vol-au-vents and the profiteroles.
Directly below me, and five storeys down, Albert Embankment was
thronged with hot-dog vendors and stalls selling plastic policeman's helmets
and postcards of Big Ben to people queuing for the London Eye, or just
enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon. A sightseeing boat packed with tourists
passed under Westminster Bridge. I could hear a bored voice telling the
story of Guy Fawkes over a crackly PA system.
It was holiday season and another news-starved week, so Mr. Murdoch and
his mates were going to be ever so pleased with what I was about to do: the
biggest explosion in London this year, and right in the heart of
Westminster. With the added bonus of a major shooting incident, it would
probably take their ratings right off the scale. Unfortunately, good news
for them was bad for me. SB (Special Branch) were going to be working their
arses off to find out who'd pressed the button, and they were the best in
the world at this sort of thing.
They'd been formed to stop the IRA carrying out exactly the kind of
stunt I was about to pull.
Three torch bulbs were still unlit. I wasn't flapping, just concerned.
At either end of the row of lights was a white, rectangular bell-push
from a door chime set, glued in position with Evostik, the wires curling
into the box. The one on the left was covered with the top from a can of
shaving cream. It was the detonation press el for the device that I'd set up
as a diversion. The device was basically a black powder charge, designed to
give off a big enough bang to grab London's attention but not to kill
anyone.
There would be some damage, there'd be the odd cut or bruise, but there
shouldn't be any fatalities. The shaving cream top was there because I
didn't want to detonate it by accident. The press el on the right was
exposed. This was the one that would initiate the shoot.
Next to the box I had a set of binos mounted on a mini-tripod and
trained on the killing ground. I was going to need them to if watch the Yes
Man as he moved about the crowd and ID'd the target.
The lunch-box contained a big, green, square lithium battery, and a
mess of wires and circuit boards. I'd never tried to make things look neat;
I just wanted them to work. Two purple plastic coated wire antennas stuck
out of the rear of the box, trailed along the desk, over the window-sill I'd
pushed it up against, then dangled down the outside wall. I had the window
closed down on them to cut out as much noise as possible.
The loudest sound in the room was my breathing, which started to
quicken as the witching hour got closer. It was only outdone by the
occasional scream of delight from a tourist at ground level or a
particularly loud PA system from the river.
All I could do was wait. I crossed my arms on the desk, rested my head
on them, and stared at the bulbs that were now level with my eyes, willing
them to start flashing.
I was shaken out of my trance as Big Ben struck two. I knew the snipers
wouldn't move into their fire positions until the last moment so that they
didn't expose themselves longer than necessary, but I really wanted those
lights to start flashing at me.
For about the millionth time in the past twenty minutes I pushed down
on the uncovered press el resting the side of my head on my forearm to look
inside the box, like a kid wondering what his mum had made him for lunch. A
small bulb, nestled amongst the mass of wires, lit up with the current
generated by my send press el I wished now that I'd burnt another hole in
the lid for the bulb inside to join the others but at the time I couldn't be
arsed. I released it and pressed again. The same thing happened. The device
was working. But what about the other three that I'd built for the snipers?
I'd just have to wait and see.
The other thing I did for the millionth time was wonder why I couldn't
just say no to this stuff. Apart from the fact that I was soft in the head,
the answer was the same as always: it was the only thing I knew. I knew it,
the Firm knew it. They also knew that, as always, I was desperate for cash
again.
If I was truthful with myself, which I found pretty hard, there was
another, much deeper reason. I got my eyes level with the bulbs once more
and took a deep breath. I'd learnt a few things since attending the clinic
with Kelly.
Even at school there was desperation in me to be part of something
whether it was joining a woodwork group, or a gang that used to rob the
Jewish kids of the dinner money they'd wrapped in hankies so we couldn't
hear it rattle in their pockets as they walked past. But it never worked.
That feeling of belonging only happened once I joined the army. And now? I
just couldn't seem to shake it off.
At last. The middle bulb, Sniper Two's, gave five deliberate,
one-second pulses.
I put my thumb on the send press el and, after a nanosecond to check I
wasn't about to blow up London in my excitement, I depressed it three times
in exactly the same rhythm, to say that I had received the signal, checking
each time that the white circuit-test bulb inside the box lit up.
I got three flashes back immediately from the middle bulb. Good news.
Sniper Two was in position, ready to fire, and we had com ms All I needed
now was One and Three, and I'd be cooking with gas.
I'd put everything these snipers needed to know where to be, how to get
there, what to do once in position, and, more importantly for them, how to
get away afterwards with the weapons and equipment in their individual DLBs
(dead letter boxes). All they had to do was read the orders, check the kit,
and get on with the shoot. The three had different fire positions, each
unknown to the others. None of them had met or even seen each other, and
they hadn't met me. That's how these things are done: OP SEC (operational
security). You only know what you need to.
I'd had an extremely busy ten nights of CTRs (close target recces) to
find suitable fire positions in the hospital grounds this side of the river
and directly opposite the killing ground. Then, by day, I'd made the keys
for the snipers to gain access to their positions, prepared the equipment
they would need, then loaded the DLBs. Tandy, B&Q and a remote-control model
shop in Camden Town had made a fortune out of me once I'd hit ATMs with my
new Royal Bank of Scotland Visa card under my new cover for this job, Nick
Somerhurst.
The only aspect of the business I was totally happy about was OP SEC It
was so tight that the Yes Man had briefed me personally.
Tucked in a very smart leather attache case, he had a buff folder with
black boxes stamped on the outside for people to sign and date as they
authorized its contents. No one had signed any of them, and there was no
yellow card attached to signify it was an accountable document. Things like
that always worried me: I knew it meant a shitload of trouble.
As we drove along Chelsea Embankment towards Parliament in the back of
a Previa MPV with darkened windows, the Yes Man had pulled two pages of
printed A4 from the folder and started to brief me. Annoyingly, I couldn't
quite read his notes from where I was sitting.
I didn't like the condescending wanker one bit as he put on his best
I-have been-to-university-but-F m-still-working-class voice to tell me I was
'special' and 'the only one capable'. Things didn't improve when he stressed
that no one in government knew of this job, and only two in the Firm: "C',
the boss of SIS, and the Director of Security and Public Affairs,
effectively his number two.
"And, of course," he said, with a smile, 'the three of us."
The driver, whose thick blond side-parted hair made him look like
Robert Redford when he was young enough to be the
Sundance Kid, glanced in the rearview mirror and I caught his eye for a
second before he concentrated once more on the traffic, fighting for
position around Parliament Square. Both of them must have sensed I wasn't
the happiest teddy in town. The nicer people were to me, the more suspicious
of their motives became.
But, the Yes Man said, I wasn't to worry. SIS could carry out
assassinations at the express request of the Foreign Secretary.
"But you just said only five of us know about this. And this is the UK.
It's not a Foreign Office matter."
His smile confirmed what I already knew.
"Ah, Nick, we don't want to bother anyone with minor details. After
all, they may not really want to know."
With an even bigger smile he added that should any part of the
operation go wrong, no one would be held ultimately responsible. The Service
would, as always, hide behind the Official Secrets Act or, if things got
difficult, a Public Interest Immunity Certificate. So everything was quite
all right, and I'd be protected. I mustn't forget, he said, that I was part
of the team. And that was when I really started to worry.
It was blindingly obvious to me that the reason no one knew about this
operation was because no one in their right mind would sanction it, and no
one in their right mind would take the job on. Maybe that was why I'd been
picked. Then, as now, I comforted myself with the thought that at least the
money was good. Well, sort of. But I was desperate for the eighty grand on
offer, forty now in two very large brown Jiffy-bags, and the rest
afterwards. That was how I justified saying yes to something I just knew was
going to be a nightmare.
We were now on the approach road to Westminster Bridge with Big Ben and
Parliament to my right. On the other side of the river I could see the
County Hall building and to the left of that, the London Eye, the wheel
turning so slowly it looked as if it wasn't moving at all.
"You should get out here, Stone. Have a look around."
With that, the Sundance Kid kerbed the Previa, and irate motorists
behind hit their horns as they tried to manoeuvre around us. I slid the door
back and stepped out to the deafening sounds of road drills and revving
engines. The Yes Man leant forward in his seat and took the door handle.
"Call in for what you need, and where you want the other three to
collect their furnishings."
With that, the door slid shut and Sundance cut up a bus to get back in
the traffic stream heading south across the river. A van driver gave me the
finger as he put his foot down to make up that forty seconds he'd been
delayed.
As I sat at the desk waiting for the other two bulbs to illuminate, I
concentrated hard on that eighty grand. I didn't think I'd ever needed it so
badly. The snipers were probably getting at least three times as much as I
was but, then, I wasn't as good as they were at what they did. These people
were as committed to their craft as Olympic athletes. I'd met one or two in
the past when I, too, thought of going that route, but decided against it;
professional snipers struck me as weird. They lived on a planet where
everything was taken seriously, from politics to buying ice cream. They
worshipped at the church of one round, one kill. No, sniping might pay well,
but I didn't think I belonged there. And, besides, I now found bullet
trajectory and the finer points of wind adjustment pretty boring after
talking about them for half an hour, let alone my entire life.
From the moment the Yes Man dropped me off with my two Jiffy-bags, I'd
started protecting myself far more than I normally would. I knew that if I
got caught by Special Branch the Firm would deny me, and that was part and
parcel of being a K. But there was more to it this time. The stuff I did
normally didn't happen in the UK, and no way would anyone in their right
mind give this the go. Everything felt wrong, and the Yes Man would never
want to be on the losing side. He'd knife his own grandmother if it meant
promotion; in fact, since he took over the Ks Desk from Colonel Lynn, he was
so far up C's arse he could have flossed his teeth. If things didn't go to
plan, and even if I did evade SB, he wouldn't hesitate to fuck me over if it
meant he could take any credit and pass on any blame.
I needed a safety blanket, so I started by noting down the serial
numbers of all three snipers' weapons before grinding them out. Then I took
Polaroids of all the equipment, plus the three firing positions during the
CTRs. I'd given the snipers photographs in their orders, and I kept a set
myself. I had a full pictorial story of the job, together with photocopies
of each set of sniper's orders. It all went into a bag in Left Luggage at
Waterloo station, along with everything else I owned: a pair of jeans,
socks, pants, washing kit and two fleece jackets.
After loading the three snipers' DLBs, I should have left them alone
but I didn't. Instead I put in an OP (observation post) on Sniper Two's dead
letter box, which was just outside the market town of Thetford in Norfolk.
There was no particular reason for picking Sniper Two's to OP, except that
it was the nearest of the three to London.
The other two were in the Peak District and on Bodmin Moor. All three
had been chosen in uninhabited areas so that once they'd got the weapons,
they could zero them to make sure that the optic sight was correctly aligned
to the barrel so that a round hit the target precisely at a given distance.
The rest -judging the wind, taking leads (aiming ahead of moving targets)
and working out distance is part of the sniper's art, but first the weapon
sight and rounds need to be as one. How they did that, and where they did
that within the area, was up to them.
They were getting more than enough cash to make those decisions
themselves.
Inside the DLB, a 45-gallon oil drum, was a large black Puma tennis bag
that held everything needed for the shoot and was totally sterile of me: no
fingerprints, certainly no DNA. Nothing from my body had made contact with
this kit. Dressed like a technician in a chemical warfare lab, I had
prepared, cleaned and wiped everything down so many times it was a wonder
there was any Parkerization (protective paint) left on the barrels.
Jammed into a Gore-Tex bivi bag and dug in amongst the ferns in
miserable drizzling rain, I waited for Sniper Two to arrive. I knew that all
three would be extremely cautious when they made their approach to lift the
DLBs, carrying out their tradecraft to the letter to ensure they weren't
followed or walking into a trap. That was why I had to keep my distance:
sixty-nine metres to be exact, which in turn had meant choosing a telephoto
lens on my Nikon for more photographic evidence of this job, wrapped in a
sweatshirt to dampen the rewind noise, and shoved into a bin liner so that
just the lens and viewfinder were exposed to the drizzle.
I waited, throwing Mars bars and water down my neck and just hoping
Sniper Two didn't choose to unload it at night.
In the end it was just over thirty boring and very wet hours before
Sniper Two started to move in on the DLB. At least it was daylight. I
watched the hooded figure check the immediate area around a collection of
old, rusty farm machinery and oil drums.
It edged forward like a wet and cautious cat. I brought up the
telephoto lens.
Tapered blue jeans, brown cross-trainers, three-quarter-length beige
waterproof jacket. The hood had a sewn-in peak, and I could see the label on
the left breast pocket: LL Bean I'd never seen one of their shops outside
the US.
What I'd also never seen outside the US was a woman sniper. She was
maybe early thirties, slim, average height, with brown hair poking out of
the sides of the hood. She was neither attractive nor unattractive, just
normal-looking, more like a young mother than a professional killer. She
reached the oil drums, and carefully checked inside hers to make sure it
wasn't booby-trapped. I couldn't help wondering why a woman would take up
this line of work. What did her kids think she did for a living? Work at the
cosmetics counter in Sears, and get dragged away a couple of times a year
for week-long eyeliner seminars?
She'd been happy with what she saw inside the drum. Her arms went
inside very quickly and lifted out the bag. She turned in my direction,
taking the weight of it in both hands, and threw it over her right shoulder.
I hit the shutter release and the camera whirred. Within seconds she'd
melted once more into the trees and tall ferns; like a cat, she'd probably
find a place to hide now and check out the spoils.
Sniping does not simply mean being a fantastic marksman. Just as
important are the field craft skills stalking, judging distance,
observation, camouflage and concealment and judging by the way she lifted
the DLB and got back into cover, I bet she'd won gold stars in all of those
disciplines.
While in the Army I had spent two years as a sniper, in a Royal
Green Jacket rifle company. I was as keen as anything: it had something
to do with being left alone just to get on with it with your sniper partner.
I learnt a lot and was a good shot, but I didn't have the passion required
to make it a life's vocation.
I was still staring at the three bulbs, waiting for One and Three to
sign in. A helicopter clattered overhead, following the river-bank on the
north side, and I had to look up to satisfy myself that it wasn't looking
for me. My paranoia was working overtime. For a moment I thought that it had
found the explosive device I'd placed on the roof of the Royal Horseguards
Hotel in Whitehall the night before. The hotel was just out of sight, behind
the MoD (Ministry of Defence) main building across the river to my half
right. Seeing the three service flags fluttering on the roof of the massive
light-coloured stone cube prompted me to check something else for the
millionth time.
Keeping the row of torch bulbs in my peripheral vision, I looked down
at the river to check the wind indicators.
In urban areas the wind can move in different directions, at different
levels, and in different strengths, depending on the buildings it has to get
around.
Sometimes streets become wind tunnels, redirecting and momentarily
strengthening the gusts. Indicators were therefore needed at different
levels round the killing area, so the snipers could compensate by adjusting
their sights. The wind can make an immense difference to where a round hits
because it simply blows it off course.
Flags are really useful, and there were more around here than at a UN
summit. On the water there were plenty of boats moored with pennants at the
stern. Higher up, on both ends of Westminster Bridge, there were the tourist
stalls, selling plastic Union Jacks and Man United streamers. The snipers
would use all of these, and they would know where to look because I'd keyed
them on to the maps supplied in the DLB. The wind condition at river level
was good, just a hint of a breeze.
My eyes caught movement in the killing ground. I felt my face flush and
my heart rate quicken. Shit, this shouldn't be kicking off yet.
I had a grandstand view of the terrace, and the times-twelve
magnification of the binos made me feel as if I was almost standing on it. I
checked it out with one eye on the binos, the other ready to pick up any
flashes from the torch bulbs.
A feeling of relief flooded through me. Catering staff. They were
streaming in and out of the covered pavilions to the left of the killing
ground, busy in their black and white uniforms, laying out ashtrays and
placing bowls of nuts and nibbles on square wooden tables. A
stressed-looking older guy in a grey, double-breasted suit stalked around
behind them, waving his arms like a conductor at the Last Night of the
Proms.
I followed the line of the terrace and spotted a photographer on one of
the wooden benches. He had two cameras by his side and smoked contentedly as
he watched the commotion, a big smile on his face.
I went back to the conductor. He looked up at Big Ben, checked his
watch, then clapped his hands. He was as worried about the deadline as I
was. At least the weather was on our side. Taking the shot through one of
the pavilion windows would have made things even more difficult than they
already were.
The three sniper positions were all on my side of the river; three
Portakabins in the grounds of St. Thomas's Hospital, directly opposite the
killing ground.
Three different positions gave three different angles of fire, and
therefore three different chances of getting a round into the target.
The distance between the first and third sniper was about ninety
metres, and they'd be shooting over a distance of between 330 and 380
metres, depending on their position in the line-up. Being one floor up, the
killing ground was below them, at an angle of about forty-five degrees. It
would be just good enough to see the target from the stomach up if it was
sitting down, and from about thigh up when standing, since a stone wall
about a metre high ran the length of the terrace to stop MPs and peers
falling into the Thames when they'd had a drink or two.
The riverbank in front of their positions was tree-lined, which
provided some cover, but also obstructed their line of sight into the
killing ground. These things are nearly always a matter of compromise; there
is rarely a perfect option.
This would be the first time the snipers had ever been to the fire
position, and it would also be the last. Soon after the shoot they'd be
heading for Paris, Lille or Brussels on Eurostar trains, which left from
Waterloo Station just ten minutes' walk away. They'd be knocking back a
celebratory glass of wine in the Channel tunnel well before the full extent
of what they'd done had dawned on Special Branch and the news networks.
TWO
Once I'd satisfied myself that the only activity in the killing ground
came from harassed catering staff, I got back to watching the three bulbs.
Snipers One and Three should have signed on by now. I was well past
concerned, and not too far short of worried.
I thought about Sniper Two. She would have moved cautiously into the
fire position after clearing her route, employing the same tradecraft as at
the DLB, and probably in a simple disguise. A wig, coat and sunglasses do
more than people think, even if SB racked up hundreds of man hours poring
over footage from hospital security, traffic and urban CCTV cameras.
Having first put on her surgical gloves, she would have made entry to
her Portakabin with the key provided, closed the door, locked up, and shoved
two grey rubber wedges a third of the way down and a third up the frame to
prevent anyone entering, even with a key. Then, before moving anywhere,
she'd have opened the sports bag and begun to put on her work clothes, a set
of light blue, hooded and footed coveralls for paint spraying from B&Q. It
was imperative that she didn't contaminate the area or the weapon and
equipment that were going to be left behind with fibres of her clothing or
other personal sign. Her mouth would now be covered by a protective mask to
prevent leaving even a pinprick of saliva on the weapon as she took aim. I
was pleased with the masks: they'd been on special offer.
The coveralls and gloves were also there to protect clothes and skin.
If she was apprehended immediately after the shoot, residue from the round
that she'd fired would be detectable on her skin and clothes. That's why
suspects' hands are bagged in plastic. I was also wearing surgical gloves,
but just as a normal precaution. I was determined to leave nothing, and
disturb nothing too.
Once she'd got covered up, with just her eyes exposed, she'd be looking
like a forensic scientist at a crime scene. It would then have been time to
prepare the fire position. Unlike me, she needed to be away from the window,
so she'd have dragged the desk about three metres clear. Then she'd have
pinned a net curtain into the plasterboard ceiling, letting it fall in front
of the desk before pinning it tight to the legs.
Next, she'd have pinned up the sheet of opaque black material behind
her, letting it hang to the floor. As with the netting, I had cut it to size
for each fire position after the CTR. The combination of a net curtain in
front and a dark backdrop behind creates the illusion of a room in shadow.
It meant that anyone looking through the window wouldn't see a fat rifle
muzzle being pointed at them by a scarily dressed woman. Both sets of optics
that she'd be using, the binos and the weapon sight, could easily penetrate
the netting, so it wouldn't affect her ability to make the shot.
Some fifteen minutes after arriving, she'd be sitting in the green,
nylon-padded swivel chair behind the desk. Her takedown weapon would be
assembled and supported on the desk by the bipod attached to the forward
stock. Her binos, mounted on a mini-tripod, would also be on the desk, and
in front of her would be her plastic lunch-box. With the weapon butt in her
shoulder, she would have confirmed the arcs of fire, making sure she could
move the weapon on its bipod to cover all of the killing ground without
being obstructed by the window-frame or trees. She'd generally sort herself
out and tune into her environment, maybe even dry practise on one of the
catering staff as they rushed around the terrace.
One of the most important things she would have done before signing on
with me was check her muzzle clearance. A sniper's optic sight is mounted on
top of the weapon. At very short ranges the muzzle may be three or four
inches below the image the sniper can actually see through the sight. It
would be a total fuck-up if she fired a round after getting a good sight
picture and it didn't even clear the room, hitting the wall or the bottom of
the window-frame instead.
To deaden the sound of the shot, each weapon was fitted with a
suppressor. This had the drawback of making the front third of the barrel
nearly twice the size of the rest of it, altering its natural balance by
making it top heavy. The suppressor wouldn't stop the bullet's supersonic
crack, but that didn't matter because the noise would be down-range and well
away from the fire position, and covered anyway by the device going off;
what it would stop was the weapon's signature being heard by hospital staff
or Italian tourists eating their overpriced ice cream on the embankment just
a few feet below.
The Portakabin's windows had to be slid open. Firing through glass
would not only alert the tourists, but would also affect the bullet's
accuracy. There was a risk that someone might think it unusual for the
window to be open on a Sunday, but we had no choice. As it was, the
suppressor alone would degrade the round's accuracy and power, which was why
we needed supersonic rounds to make the distance. Subsonic ammunition, which
would eliminate the crack, just wouldn't make it.
It would only be once she was happy with her fire position, and had
checked that her commercial hearing-aid was still in place under her hood,
that she would sign on. Her box of tricks didn't have lights, just a green
wire antenna that would probably be laid along the desk then run along the
floor. A copper coil inside the box emitted three low touch tones; when I
hit my send press el they picked that up through the hearing-aid.
There was one other wire coming out of the box, leading to a flat,
black plastic button; this would now be taped on to the weapon wherever she
had her support hand in position to fire.
Hitting the press el five times, once she was ready to go, was what lit
up my number-two bulb five times.
There was nothing left for her to do now but sit perfectly still,
weapon rested, naturally aligned towards the killing area, observe,
wait, and maybe listen to the comings and goings just below her. With luck
the other two were going to be doing the same very soon. If anyone from
hospital security attempted to be the good guy and close her window, a woman
dressed like an extra from the X-Files would be the last thing they ever saw
as she dragged them inside.
It was only now that she was in position that her problems really
began. Once she'd zeroed the weapon in Thetford Forest, it would have been
carried as if it was fine china. The slightest knock could upset the optic
sight and wreck the weapon's zero. Even a tiny misalignment could affect the
round by nearly an inch, and that would be bad news.
And it wasn't just the possibility of the optic being knocked, or the
suppressor affecting the round's trajectory. The weapon itself, issued to me
by the Yes Man, was 'take down'. So, once she had zeroed it for that one,
all-important shot, it had to be taken apart for concealment, before being
reassembled at the firing point.
Thankfully this bolt-action model only had to be split in two at the
barrel, and because they were brand new, they wouldn't have suffered that
much wear and tear on the bearing surfaces. But there only had to be a
slight difference in the assembly from when it was zeroed, a knock to the
optic sight in transit, for the weapon to be inches off where she was
aiming.
This isn't a problem when an ordinary rifleman is firing at a body mass
at close range, but these boys and girls were going for a catastrophic brain
shot, one single round into the brain stem or neural motor strips. The
target drops like liquid and there is no chance of survival. And that meant
they had to aim at either of two specific spots the tip of an earlobe, or
the skin between the nostrils.
She and the other two would need to be the most boring and religious
snipers on earth to do that with these weapons. The Yes Man hadn't listened.
It annoyed me severely that he knew jack shit about how things worked on the
ground, and yet had been the one who decided which kit to use.
I tried to calm down by making myself remember it wasn't entirely his
fault.
There had to be a trade-off between concealment and accuracy, because
you can't just wander the streets with a fishing-rod case or the world's
longest flowerbox. But fuck it, I'd despised him when he was running the
support cell, and now it was worse.
I looked through the window at the distant black and white figures
moving around the killing ground, and wondered if the Brit who'd first
played about with a telescopic sight on a musket in the seventeenth century
ever realized what drama he was bringing to the world.
I checked out the area with my binos, using just one eye so I didn't
miss One or Three signing in. The binos were tripodded because twelve-times
magnification at this distance was so strong that the slightest judder would
make it seem like I was watching The Blair Witch Project.
Things had moved on. The staff were still being hassled by the
grey-suited catering bully. As guests came through the grand arched door on
to the terrace, they'd now be greeted by trestle tables covered by brilliant
white tablecloths.
Silver trays of fluted glasses waited to be filled as corks were pulled
from bottles of champagne.
Things would be kicking off soon, and all I had was one sniper. Not
good; not good at all.
I refocused the binos on the arched doorway, then went back to watching
the lights, willing them to spark up. There was nothing else I could do.
I tried and failed to reassure myself that the co-ordination plan for
the shoot was so beautifully simple, it would work with only one sniper.
The snipers had the same binos as mine and would also have them focused
on the door. They'd want to ID the Yes Man the moment he walked into the
killing area, and they'd use binos first because they give a field of view
of about ten metres, which would make it easier to follow him through the
crowd until he made the target ID. Once that was done, they would switch to
their weapon's optic sight, and I would concentrate on the lights.
The method I was going to use to control the snipers and tell them when
to fire had been inspired by a wildlife documentary I'd seen on TV. Four
Indian game wardens, working as a team in total silence, had managed to
stalk and fire sedative darts into an albino tiger from very close range.
Whenever any of the snipers had a sight picture of the target and felt
confident about taking the shot, they'd hit their press el and keep it
pressed. The corresponding bulb in front of me would stay lit for as long as
they could take the shot. If they lost their sight picture, they released
their press el and the bulb would go out until they acquired it again.
Once I'd made the decision when to fire, I'd push my send press el
three times in a one-second rhythm.
The first press would tell the firer or firers to stop breathing so
their body movement didn't affect the aim.
The second would tell them to take up the first pressure on the
trigger, so as not to jerk the weapon when they fired.
As I hit the press el the second time, I'd also trigger the detonation.
The third time, the snipers would fire as the device exploded on the roof of
the hotel. If all three were up and the target was sitting, that would be
perfect but it rarely happens that way.
The device would not only disguise the sonic cracks, but create a
diversion on the north side of the river while we extracted. I just wished
the MoD building wasn't closed for the weekend: I'd have loved to see their
faces as the blast took out a few of their windows. Never mind, with luck it
would make the Life Guards' horses on Whitehall throw off their mounts.
None of the snipers would know if the others had the target. The first
time they'd know the option was going ahead was when they heard the three
tones in their ear. If they didn't have a sight picture themselves, they
wouldn't take a shot.
After the explosion, whether they'd fired a round or not, they would
all exit from their positions, stripping off their outer layer of coveralls
and leaving the area casually and professionally with the protective
clothing in their bag.
The rest of the kit, and the weapons, would be discovered at some point
by the police, but that wouldn't matter to me as I'd handed it over sterile.
It shouldn't matter to these people either, as they ought to be professional
enough to leave it in the same condition as they'd received it. If they
didn't, that was their problem.
I rubbed my eyes.
Another light flashed.
Sniper One was in position, ready to go.
I hit the send press el three times, and after a short pause Sniper
One's bulb flashed three times in return.
I was feeling a little better now, with two snipers sitting perfectly
still, watching and waiting as they continued to tune into the killing
ground. I could only hope that Sniper Three was close behind.
THREE
Big Ben struck half past the hour. Thirty minutes to go.
I continued to stare at the box, trying to transmit positive thoughts.
The job was going to happen with or without Sniper Three, but what with the
weapon problems, three chances of a hit were better than two.
My positive transmissions weren't working at all, and after ten minutes
or so my eyes were drawn to the killing ground again. Things were happening.
Different colours of clothing were moving amongst the black and white of the
catering staff like fragments in a kaleidoscope. Shit, they were early.
I put one eye to the binos and checked them out, just as One and Two
would be doing. The new arrivals seemed to be the advance party, maybe ten
suited men, all of them white. I checked that the Yes Man wasn't amongst
them and had fucked up his own plan. He wasn't. He would have fitted in
nicely, though: they didn't really seem to know what to do with themselves,
so decided to mill around the door like sheep, drinking champagne and
mumbling to each other, probably about how pissed off they were to be
working on a Sunday. Dark, double-breasted suits with a polyester mix seemed
to be the order of the day. I could see the well worn shine and lard-arse
creases up the backs of the jackets even from here. The jackets were mostly
undone because of the weather or pot bellies, revealing ties that hung
either too high or too low.
They had to be Brit politicians and civil servants.
The only exception was a woman in her early thirties with blonde hair
and rectangular glasses, who came into view alongside the catering bully.
Dressed in an immaculate black trouser suit, she seemed to be the only one
of the new arrivals who knew what was what. With a mobile phone in her left
hand and a pen in her right, she seemed to be pointing out that everything
his staff had done needed redoing.
The cameraman also wandered into my field of view, taking light
readings, and clearly enjoying the last-minute flap. There was a flash as he
took a test shot.
Then there was another in my peripheral vision, and I looked down.
The third bulb. I nearly cheered.
I left the blonde-haired PR guru to get on with it, and concentrated on
the box as I replied to the flashes. Sniper Three duly acknowledged.
Big Ben chimed three times.
Relief washed over me. I'd known all along that these people would only
get into position at the very last moment, but that didn't stop me worrying
about it while I was waiting. Now I just wanted this thing over and done
with, and to slip away on Eurostar to the Gare du Nord, then on to Charles
de Gaulle. I should make the check-in nicely for my 9 p.m. American Airlines
flight to Baltimore, to see Kelly and finish my business with Josh.
I got back on the binos and watched the PR guru tell the Brits, ever so
nicely and with a great big smile, to get the fuck away from the door and
prepare to mingle. They cradled their champagne glasses and headed for the
nibbles, drifting from my field of view. I kept my focus on the doorway.
Now that it was clear of bodies, I could just about penetrate the
shadows inside. It looked like a canteen, the sort where you drag your tray
along the counter and pay at the end. What a let-down: I'd been expecting
something a bit more regal.
The door-frame was soon filled again, by another woman with a mobile
phone stuck to her ear. This one had a clipboard in her free hand; she
stepped on to the terrace, closed down her mobile, and looked around.
The blonde PR guru came into view. There was lots of nodding, talking,
and pointing around the killing area, then they both went back where they'd
come from. I felt a wave of apprehension. I wanted to get on with it and get
aboard that Eurostar.
"One of the team," the Yes Man had said.
One of the team, my arse. The only things that would help me if this
went wrong were my security blanket and a quick exit to the States.
Seconds later, human shapes began filling the area behind the door, and
were soon pouring out into the killing area. The woman with the clipboard
appeared behind them, shepherding them with a fixed, professional smile. She
guided them to the glasses on the table by the door as if they could have
missed them.
Then the catering staff were on top of them like flies on shit, with
nibbles on trays, and a whole lot more champagne.
The South American contingent was easy to identify, not by brown or
black skin but because they were far better dressed, in well-cut suits and
expertly knotted ties. Even their body language had more style. The group
was predominantly male, but none of the women with them would have looked
out of place in a fashion magazine.
Obligingly, Clipboard coaxed the guests away from the doorway and into
the killing area. They spread out and mingled with the advance party. It
became clear that everybody was going to continue standing up rather than
move over to the benches. I'd have preferred them to sit down like a line of
ducks at a fairground, but it wasn't going to happen. We were going to have
to settle for a moving target.
The Yes Man was due to arrive ten minutes after the main party. The
plan was that he'd spend five minutes by the door, making a call, which
would give all four of us time to ping him. From there he would move off and
ID the target.
All three would now be taking slow, deep breaths so they were fully
oxygenated.
They would also be constantly checking the wind indicators until the
last minute, in case they had to readjust their optics.
My heart pumped harder now. The snipers' hearts, however, would be
unaffected.
In fact, if they'd been linked to an ECG
machine they'd probably have registered as clinically dead. When they
were in their zone, all they could think about was taking that single,
telling shot.
More people cut across my field of view, then the Yes Man appeared in
the doorway. He was five foot six tall, and not letting me down by wearing
the same sort of dark, badly fitting business suit as the rest of the Brits.
Under it he had a white shirt and a scarlet tie that made him look like a
candidate for Old Labour. The tie was important because it was his main VDM
(visual distinguishing mark). The rest of his kit and his physical
description had also been given to the snipers, but he was easy enough to
identify from his permanently blushing complexion, and a neck that always
seemed to have a big boil on the go. On any other forty-year-old it would
have been unfortunate, but as far as I was concerned it couldn't have
happened to a nicer guy.
On his left hand he wore a wedding ring. I'd never seen a picture of
his wife in his office, and I didn't know if he had children. In fact, I
really hoped he didn't or if he did, that they looked like their mother.
Producing his mobile, the Yes Man came off the threshold and moved to
the right of the doorway as he finished dialling. He looked up and nodded
hello to somebody out of my field of view, then gave a wave to them and
pointed at the mobile to show his intentions.
I watched him listen to the ringing tone, keeping his back against the
wall so that we could check the tie. His hair was greying, or it would have
been if he'd left it alone but he'd been at the Grecian 2000, and I was
catching more than a hint of copper. It complemented his complexion very
well indeed. I felt myself grinning.
A young waiter came up to him with a tray of full glasses, but was
waved away as he continued with his call. The Yes Man didn't drink or smoke.
He was a bornagain Christian, Scientologist, something like that, or one of
the happy-clappy bands. I'd never really bothered to find out, in case he
tried to recruit me and I found myself saying yes. And I didn't set much
store by it. If the Yes Man discovered C was a Sikh, he'd turn up at work in
a turban.
His conversation over, the phone got shut down, and he walked towards
the river.
As he wove and sidestepped through the crowd he bounced slightly on the
balls of his feet, as if trying to give himself extra height. Watching his
progress, I gently undid the tripod restraining clips so I could swivel the
binos and continue to follow him if I needed to.
He passed the two PR women, who looked pretty pleased with themselves.
Each had a phone and a cigarette in one hand and a glass of
self-congratulatory champagne in the other. He passed the cameraman, who was
now busy taking group shots with Big Ben in the background for the Latin
folks back home. Little did he know that he was a couple of chimes short of
a world exclusive.
The Yes Man side-stepped the photo session and continued to go left,
still towards the river. He stopped eventually by a group of maybe ten men,
gathered in a wide, informal circle. I could see some of their faces, but
not all, as they talked, drank or waited for refills from the staff buzzing
around them. Two were white-eyes, and I could see four or five Latino faces
turned towards the river.
The older of the two white-eyes smiled at the Yes Man and shook his
hand warmly.
He then began to introduce hi...
